


i know you can feel the magic we don't need to talk about it

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Exes, F/M, Holidays, Jealousy, Mentions of former relationship, Modern AU, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Christmas eve, Clarke's sort-of-ex shows up at her door in the middle of an awkward family dinner and so she ends up flashing him. Holiday spirit and all.(Written for the Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange secret santa. Exes + jealousy + protectiveness + modern AU + holidays.)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 42
Kudos: 186
Collections: Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange 1.0





	i know you can feel the magic we don't need to talk about it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eyessharpweaponshot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyessharpweaponshot/gifts).



> happy holidays, filthy animals. die hard is a christmas movie. boycott starbucks. again, my tropes: exes + jealousy + protectiveness + modern au (& holiday themed). i did my best. 
> 
> partly based on [this](https://twitter.com/baddestmamajama/status/1199796733741432833?s=20) tweet [spoilers ahead].
> 
> warning: clarke also has feelings for someone else in this fic. do NOT come for my neck. it is how love works. it's messy. shut up and eat your food.

**~~**

Clarke has been specialized in under-the-table texting since she was an angsty, hormonal teenager and a fear of acceptance made her feel like she needed to hide the fact she liked a girl from her parents. 

(Her name was Niylah. She was a senior so she barely paid any attention to freshman her, and Clarke really  _ only _ knew her because she was their private school’s singular lesbian. Yet, it was still like a whole new blue-skied, sunshine-filled world opened every time the older girl smiled over at her in the hallways. Niylah was everything she wanted to be  _ and  _ she was pretty. How could she not have a crush?) 

During a way-too-early-o’clock-for-fuck’s-sake breakfast, it’s her own little indulgence while her mom and Marcus -- the boyfriend -- make a crossword puzzle together. A family activity she has  _ no _ desire to engage in. Instead, she scrolls through her message while occasionally humming when one of them says something to give them the slightest semblance of the idea that she’s present. 

Her inbox is overflooding with messages; from study buddies wishing her a good winter break, to coffee-shop colleagues sending her instagram quote ecards, friends sending her dumb ‘ _ merry chrysler _ ’ memes (mostly Jasper) and the people who know her best sending her all their  _ strength _ for the upcoming holidays (Bless Wells and the fact Thelonious’ need to fill the motherless-void just makes them go on a holiday retreat to Switzerland each year) -- Clarke hates it here, especially  _ now _ . 

Her dad died exactly five christmases ago, her family spirit long before that, but her mom is trying to make an effort these days and she is the only parent she has left. Clarke has to give it a fair shot too, at least use one of her yearly breaks from university to come back to her little shitty hometown on the other side of the world and make forced small-talk avoiding all the elephants in the room. She loves her mom, she does. She just doesn’t always particularly enjoy being around her. 

She’s so distracted with shooting off ‘ _ you too’ _ messages, she doesn’t even think twice about shooting a reply to Bellamy when -- in the middle of a discussion about whether or not he watched  _ a Nightmare Before Christmas _ too early (“ _ It’s  _ before  _ Christmas for a reason _ ”) or she should’ve watched it already (“ _ It has Christmas in the title, not Halloween _ ”) -- he asks her, “What’s the name of your hometown again?”

And she’s like, “Arkadia. They say it’s the city of old white people.” 

To which he replies, “Like your parents.”

“Dead dad, remember.”

“Oof .” Bellamy sends her, none of that fake sympathy shit, then a second later follows it up with, “Fine, you win. It’s a Christmas movie.”

And then it’s back to their regularly scheduled shit-talking. Clarke doesn’t spare it another thought, putting her phone down not too long after. She’s in dire need of a shower and a moment to herself. 

Fast forward eight and a half hours, throw an ugly, itchy Christmas sweater and a half-finished painting in the mix, and there’s an unexpected knock on the door. Over the music, her mom, busy with unsuccessful cookie attempt number five, calls for her to get it, so with an eye-roll, she pads out into the hallway. 

Ever since her dad died and her mom met Marcus, she’s turned into this scary family-oriented monster. Clarke thinks it’s guilt for never being around when her dad was still alive, and frankly it’s annoying because this version of her mom doesn’t feel  _ genuine  _ but performative instead. At least her mom is growing as a person or something. 

She no longer forces Clarke to dress up in expensive cocktail dresses for her hospital’s holiday charity galas or to spend Thanksgiving dinner at a table with all of Marcus’ old business associates trying to lure down her dress. (The ugly christmas sweater tradition is a long left lingering souvenir from those days, recycling it every holiday even easter.)

Instead, it means there’s a strict ‘family policy’ on holidays these days and it’s just always the three of them, which in turn means there’s no expected visitors. 

Still wiping some paint off her fingers on the apron she’s wearing to protect earlier-mentioned ugly sweater, Clarke opens the door with a confused, wrinkled forehead. “You’re not a caroler.”

  
Bellamy holds up a bottle of apple-cider with a cheeky grin. There’s a few snowflakes in his hair, the tip of his nose slightly more red than the rest of his golden brown skin. “Surprise?”

She blinks at him stupidly, then remembers she has to speak in order for him to hear her. With a quick look over her shoulder, she steps outside on the porch, leaving the door cracked. She hugs herself to brace the cold. “What are you doing here?”

His grin doesn’t falter. “I came to see you.”

Dumbfounded, she stares him down with some good-natured disbelief. She doesn’t understand, but she’s not actually that mad. Just confused. Slightly amused. A weird mix of emotions. “You say that like we’re friends. People. Who see each other. Regularly.”

Bellamy wipes the grin off his face, instead obviously hiding a smirk now as he checks her out slowly. “We know each other intimately enough.”

She clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring slight. He’s always been so aggravatingly smug and he knows she hates it. “And by that you mean we --” She lowers her voice, just to be sure, taking a step closer in case her mom took a break before starting burnt cookie attempt number six and is eavesdropping, “--hate-fucked against a wall in the storage room of your sleazy bar a few times?”

It was more than a  _ few _ times, and her degrading it like that must hurt his feelings, but he doesn’t show it. He lifts one shoulder lazily. “Yeah.”

His nonchalance makes her hiss out, skeptical, “And that makes you think we’re on a tea and Christmas cookies basis with my parents?”

“Parent. Your father is dead,” he corrects, deadpan. Then he holds out the cider again, a gleam in his eyes. “See, I know things. About you.”

Clarke groans loudly, yanking the bottle from his hands and pushing the door back open as she nudges her head for him to follow her and her fluffy socks inside. 

He shrugs out of his jacket and points at the coat rack beside the door. She nods, still frowning and it he hangs it up there before shaking out his curls. “To be fair, I had no idea it was an eight hour drive.”

She continues her march down the hallway, but makes the mistake of belatedly realizing she’ll have to get past the kitchen. “Did Google Maps blur out estimated time of arrival?”

“I thought it misestimated,” Bellamy scoffs, close on her heels as he looks around, admiring the house. She knows it’s a bit much, the mansion her mother practically lives in. The portraits of her face on every other wall. His eyes linger on the ten foot tree by the stairs. 

She sends him an amused glance over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Only you would think your IQ is higher than Google’s.”

“It’s the internet,” he argues seriously, moving up the sleeves off his maroon crewneck until his forearms are bared. Which,  _ not  _ cool and she keeps her gaze trained ahead. “It’s available to everyone, including dumbasses.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, hurrying past the kitchen and mentally saying a quick prayer her mom just won’t notice. It could happen. “Google Maps is a geographic information system. Not a subreddit.”

“Clarke, who’s this?” Her mom breaks in, looking at them from the other side of the kitchen island, hands covered in brand new mitts. Her eyebrow is cocked in that annoying all-knowing way, the tone of her voice incredibly suggestive, “I didn’t know you were having a guest over.”

“A friend,” she immediately and pointedly counters with a firm glare, all the way until her mother is standing in front of them, and even then she adds a little more of that ‘ _ for the love of God, don’t push this _ ’ flair. 

Em-fucking-barrassing what her mom is implying right in front of him. She’s been begging Clarke to move on for months, and now a guy shows up to her doorstep out-of-the-blue with a bottle of cider and she has no doubt her mom will have figured out he’s single before the next ten minutes pass because that’s who her mom is. 

Abby sounds unconvinced nonetheless, and it’s not at all weird she’s addressing her directly about Bellamy when he’s standing beside her, watching them like a tennis match. “So he’s just a  _ friend _ that made half a day’s drive over here for a surprise visit?”

People have to make everything romantic nowadays. He  _ could _ just be a friend. He isn’t, but her mom doesn’t know that. And it annoys her she’s prying and making her specify when she’s not even sure what they are herself. Clarke opens her mouth to respond, but Bellamy beats her to it, “I would’ve brought a boombox m’am, but I didn’t want to disturb you neighbours.”

His teeth gleam in the kitchen light and her mom chuckles, and it’s even worse, because it’s a  _ charmed _ chuckle, and Clarke absolutely did not sign up for this. She’s mad at her mom for making this into a thing, and she’s mad at Bellamy for knowing this could be made into a thing, and she’s mad at herself for opening the door. Scratch that, she’s mad she got up this morning. She should’ve stayed in bed.

“I’m Abby,” her mom says, tugging off one oven mitt to hold out her hand. “Clarke’s mom.”

“Bellamy,” he replies, gripping her hand in between both of his as he shakes it. He loves teasing her, always has, which is why it doesn’t surprise her when he says, “Clarke’s _ friend _ .”

Her mother’s lips curl up in amusement and Clarke groans at the smug look on his face, grabbing a tight hold of his bicep and dragging him into the hobby room just a few feet further down the hall. She almost made it, damnit. 

At least he didn’t tell her mom he confused her for her sister, she can count that as a win at least. It could’ve been worse. He could’ve gone full charm, but he held back. Still, she’s going to have to find a subtle way to kick him to the curb sooner rather than later. She isn’t really in the mood to explain their relationship to her mother, and if he stays she’ll grill him instead of her, and he’ll actually  _ answer _ . A literal nightmare.

Clarke yanks her apron off her neck as soon as the double doors close behind them, discarding it on top of the stool beside her easel. She turns back to him, narrowing her eyes. “An explanation?”

His brown eyes soften apologetically, shoulders hunching over slightly as he rubs the back of his neck.  “I don’t know. Octavia went on a last-minute trip with her friends and I didn’t want to be in an empty house on Christmas Eve.”

“Damnit,” she mutters, feeling herself give in with a tired sigh. That’s kind of a good reason. A  _ sad _ reason, even if it does sound like the bad beginning of a Hallmark life lesson movie. She purses her lips briefly, relenting. Not full on relenting, because she’ll never just come out and tell him ‘ _ I would like for you to stay _ ’ so she takes the long way there. “We still have to make up the tree. My mom’s a doctor so she didn’t have the time and Kane was out of town for his campaign all month.”

He beams, bright and happy and okay, she’s making the right decision to allow him to stay. “I don’t even have a tree.”

Clarke pulls a face, tilting her head slightly. “Jesus, we get it. You’re pathetic.”

He steps forward with a loud laugh, putting his arms around her shoulders and she relents after two stubborn, prideful seconds, relaxing beneath him and eventually dragging her arms up to put them around his waist. He smells like coffee and royal pine car freshener and just nice. 

He runs a hand over her head to smooth down her hair as he pulls away before directing his gaze onto her half-finished painting. He juts his chin at it. “So what’s this?”

“An excuse to not have to test-taste those cookies my mom is baking.”

He presses his lips together, hiding an amused smile. “I don’t know, I like it when they’re extra crispy.”

“I could  _ not  _ have been the only one who saw that cloud of smoke behind her.”

He places her apron on the table beside him, sinking down on top of the stool. “She’s trying.”

Clarke blinks at him. “To cause cancer?”

He raises his eyebrows, but he’s obviously teasing her. “Hey, all my mom ever did for Christmas is bring home one of her new deadbeat boyfriends. There were never any cookies.”

“And look at how you turned out,” she says, patting his shoulder faux-sympathetically. “You survived.”

“Prospered even.”

She laughs and for some reason it’s not weird. It should be, because they’re not talking about  _ a lot _ \-- like a plethora -- of things here, but it isn’t. It’s nice, to just be with him like a friend. “Look, my plans were to finish this painting before you came Christmas Eve-crashing--” She puts her hands on top of his shoulders from behind so she can spin the stool towards the back the room, pointing at the couch in front of the window. “--so just sit there and be silent.”

“Thrilling plans,” he deadpans, but gets up from the stool anyway, kicking off his shoes before he plops down on the couch. He must be tired because his face gets all sleepy, but he doesn’t fall asleep. She finds her eyes wander over to him more often than necessary as they talk -- catching up on school, winter break activities, the bar’s new open mic thing he’s trying -- and she paints. She’s just did  _ not  _ expect any of this when she woke up this morning, least at all from him. 

They’ve barely finished catching up when Bellamy is dragged into picking up the take-out food with her mother, because it’s snowy and her mother hates driving when it’s snowy because of her dad. Clarke stays behind with Marcus -- who finally came down from his office -- so they can make-up the big dining table with their fancy plates instead of the regular old kitchen table, per her mother’s instructions.  _ Performative.  _ Clarke doesn’t fight it, she has long figured out to what battles to pick to win the war. 

It takes him fifteen minutes to build up the courage in the middle of him trying to copy Clarke’s origami folded christmas tree napkins, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know you were dating again.”

Dating. You see,  _ this _ is what happens. 

Her back straightens as she takes the green cloth from him and shakes it out, starting over. Keeping her tone friendly but firm, knowing all information she gives him is somehow always badly filtered back towards her mom, “I’m not.”

She doesn’t know what comes over her, but she follows it up with a disdained, “Would you guys cross-examine me like this if Harper came over? Or is it just that a woman and a man couldn’t  _ possibly _ be just friends?”

“No,” he admits honestly, straightening the finished napkin design she put down on the plate in front of him. “But Harper doesn’t look at you the way he looks at you.”

Now he looks at her a certain way? She screams internally for three seconds before she inhales sharply, forcing herself to stay calm. “Can we just drop it?”

Kane nods his head slowly, lips pursed. There’s a pensive look on his face, but eventually all that follows is, “Okay.”

Clarke thanks her lucky stars he doesn’t go off into another philosophical speech about something stupid like needing to love yourself first that he’s paraphrasing from one of his self-help books, and before she knows it she not only hears a car pull up on their driveway but Marcus has also managed to rip one of their _ cloth _ napkins. 

They laugh about it, and she mutters a sorry under her breath for snapping at him earlier because it’s Christmas and all, and he squeezes her shoulder and she has to physically repress a wince when he tells her, “We just want to see you happy again, Clarke.”

Her mom sits at the head of the table, Kane on one side, Clarke on the other with Bellamy beside her. He and Marcus debate the electoral college system with amicable smiles on their faces, his mom offers him the last eggroll first, his knee accidently knocks into hers under the table. It’s almost normal, she realizes, inhaling her noodles to keep from having to join any conversations so she can spiral in peace.    
  


Clarke is  _ so _ confused. Is this an alternative reality? Did she get knocked out by an ice sculpture this morning and did she end up in a bad Hallmark Christmas movie and is Santa going to show up with a life lesson in tow, or worse, two other ghosts from her naked past? Why he is even here is beyond her. She remembers, clearly, how they ended things a few weeks ago and it wasn’t pretty. 

It was in the breakroom at his bar. There was yelling, mostly about needing space, but also some of it just ugly. They haven’t always brought out the best in each other, and whenever that happened the truth got lost in translation. Instead of just telling him ‘ _ you have a habit of being jealous even though I explicitly told you we’re non-exclusive and it bothers me _ ’ she kind of just called him a ‘ _ controlling, self-absorbed jackass’  _ because that would also do. And instead of just telling her ‘ _ you have a habit of shutting down whenever I get too close and it hurts my feelings _ ’ which would have been completely valid, he called her a ‘ _ cold-hearted bitch _ ’. 

So. Not pretty. 

To think it all started in that same storage room a few months before, just to let off some much needed steam. They met through her pre-med labpartner Monty, who not only introduced them, but also insisted on spending almost every weekend in his bar. She had no choice in whether or not she wanted to get to know Bellamy, she had to. They had a lot of mutual friends and some weeks, she saw him more than she saw some of her actual best friends. 

And the two of them, they started off always fighting about nothing in particular, mostly just some friendly ribbing or taking on a contrary opinion just for the heck of it. Never  _ really _ friends, because he already had lots of those and a sister to raise and a bar to run, and she could not keep up a real relationship with more than a handful of few people at a time, but acquaintances for sure. If she would run into him in the grocery store, she’d like to think she’d give him a nod in greeting. 

A few amical moments here and there aside. On the anniversary of her dad’s death she usually always likes to isolate herself and drink away her sorrows by herself, and when Raven came looking for her because she hadn’t answered a text all day, Bellamy lied and said she hadn’t been there, called it ‘ _ dead parent solidarity _ ’ when she asked about it after. Clarke helped him pick up that girl Gina he’d been thirsting after for  _ weeks _ and every now and then gave him advice about his teenage sister’s dating problems. Sometimes they’d talk about the trouble she had deciding if she wanted to switch majors to art, or whether or not he should go back to school in the few minute window before the others arrived at the bar. 

And then one night -- after a  _ bad _ breakup the day before -- he teased her for looking like shit which he had done all the time during finals week or a long night out and she’d usually make a dig right back at him. But this time, it escalated into a huge fight because she  _ wanted  _ it to be a huge fight. She wanted to yell at someone so she didn’t have to feel so empty inside. Lexa broke her heart and instead of being sad or angry, she felt numb. 

He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and she told him that in those exact words just so he could call her condescending in return and set off a legendary screaming match. It felt good, to feel something else, and then it felt  _ even  _ better when the screaming match turned into them glaring at each other and despite all the rage swimming in his eyes, he looked at her like she was  _ desirable _ . He wanted her, and he was available, and she desperately needed to feel better. Tension was always palpable between them after a fight, but this time, it actually led somewhere instead of fizzling out as they ignored each other for the rest of the day. It was busy that night, so no one noticed them disappearing for the next half an hour. 

Jasper spared a weird glance between Clarke’s messy hair and the smudged lipstick on Bellamy’s neck when they returned, but was high enough to forget about it the next day. The rest was history. 

Clarke thought she had been clear it was just casual, but she thinks if anyone asked him even now he would say they’d been together. Then again, she also told him in the same conversation it would be a one-time thing and it continued on for months. She should’ve been more clear about her intentions, she knows that now, and the next time she tries friends-with-benefits she’ll be sure to make them sign a contract not to get feelings involved.

Even if it  _ had _ ended pretty, they _ just _ picked up talking again a few days ago. They both apologized and figured they could be adults about it, considering despite all that happened, they  _ did _ miss talking to each other. And Bellamy, by all means, is a popular guy. He has lots of friends that don’t live eight hours away. 

Yet, he’s at her mom’s house, and he ate all her favorite dumplings and is now hanging candy canes in her Christmas tree. Part of her always thought that at any moment in the near future he would realize he didn’t actually miss  _ her _ , he just missed getting laid on a regular basis. Which, she now realizes, was a gross misjudgement of and disservice to who he is as a person. She should have given him more credit than that. 

Dumbfoundedly, she watches him, partly hidden from view by the spikey green branches, as he reaches up to hook the final gingerbread man ornament onto the tree and hums along to ‘ _ All I Want For Christmas _ ’ under his breath. He calls her mother m’am, and he has abs, and unashamedly knows the words to that Mariah Carey song from hell, and she’s completely baffled by him. 

The way he did this whole dramatic drop-by at her house on Christmas Eve just because he likes spending time with her and wanted to, not giving a shit about whether it’s a normal thing to do or not, not expecting anything in return. Even after she not only used the heat of the moment to tell him that he wasn’t her type, but basically added some salt to the wound by saying she could never love someone like him. She was hurt, and because of it she hurt him, too. 

If he told her any of those things after she confessed she had feelings for him, she would be too embarrassed to be around him for the rest of her life. Yet he still wants to be friends. She thought they could get back to that point, someday. That they would work their way up there. Texts just a careful beginning, not the first step of the steps on her real-life porch on Christmas Eve. 

It’s beyond her and her complicated set of feelings she has about him and has left untouched for the last weeks, figuring she’d get to them at some point. 

“You’re staring,” he notes dryly, pulling her back towards the present, not even bothering to look over at her. In the distance, a Christmas themed episode of Jeopardy plays lowly. 

Clarke blinks at him a few times, and instead of turning it into a joke like she’d easily could and he’d definitely let her get away with, she goes with the truth. “I am really sorry, you know. For all those things I said. When--” She cuts herself off, fumbling with the red ribbon in her hands. She decides not to finish that sentence. Broke-up? Fought? What is even the proper wording here?

“You weren’t wrong about everything,” he shrugs, fixating his gaze on the tree as he wipes some glitters off on the back of his pants. “I’ve done some  _ self-reflecting _ \--”

“Wow,” Clarke deadpans, more than eager to break some of the tension between them, “And here I thought you thought about yourself all this time.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, even though he’s trying to narrow his eyes at the same time. Pointedly, he continues, “and I realized that me threatening to break that guy’s nose for just looking at you was--”

She pins the ribbon to a branch, then cocks an eyebrow as she cuts in, “An overbearingly, belittling jackass move?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes half-heartedly. “I was going to go with ‘too much’, but sure.”

His honesty makes her want to be honest as well, so she offers him a small smile while she straightens one of the ornaments. “Well, despite it being a surprise, I’m still kind of glad you’re here.”

“Kind of glad?” He flinches exaggeratedly. “Would it hurt you to say you enjoy my company too?”

She snorts. “Keep dreaming.” 

He picks up the can of artificial snow spray from the stepladder beside them, pointing it at her threateningly. “Say I’m your friend, or you’re going to look like the abominable snowman in three seconds.”

“If you need validation that badly,” she says, smugly, adding a dramatic pause just for the heck of it. She obviously would have just told him they were friends to start with if he wanted to hear it so badly, if only he wasn’t so fun to mess with. “We’re definitely well-acquainted.”

A spray of snow hits her in the shoulder and she dodges it too late, laughing stupidly at the white stain. Bellamy tries to keep a straight face as he urges, “Friends or I tell your mom exactly how well-acquainted we are.”

“But I’m a virgin,” she deadpans, and he sprays her again, this time straight in the chest. She brushes off her sweater immediately, yelling out an offended ‘hey!’. 

“I’m doing you a favor,” he chuckles mostly to himself, eyebrows raised as he studies it again. “That thing is  _ ugly _ .”

“Don’t roast the sweater,” she states, protectively hugging herself. They’ve been through a lot together, this garment and her. “Real friends don’t roast each other’s sweaters.” 

He frowns. “What’s wrong with  _ my _ sweater?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your sweater.”

“You said friends don’t roast each other’s sweaters which implied you were holding back something about mine.”

“I gave you a win! I  _ implied _ we were friends!”

“As long as we agree my sweater looks good.” 

Of course it looks good. He looks good in about everything. It’s one of the top reasons he’s so annoying. 

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t just threaten my life over a relationship label.”

He holds up the can, shakes it like he’s gearing up for battle. “One more word and you’re Olaf.”

They laugh, like genuine idiots, and make plans to see the Frozen sequel once she’s back from her winter break and for the first time in a long while, she realizes they actually _ are  _ friends. Good friends, even. If they ignore the fact they used to be naked together all the time, of course. She likes being around him, and feels like she can talk to him about anything, and he always knows how to make her laugh. 

After they give up on the tree they settle in on the couch to watch a terrible Netflix Christmas movie that’s so bad it’s almost good but not quite. His arm presses against hers the entire time, but she can’t find it in herself to move away. Marcus keeps asking questions about the movie like the plot is Inception-difficult to follow and her mom manages to screw up  _ microwave _ popcorn. 

One of the main characters likes to draw and of course Santa’s magic makes all of them come alive, but apparently the budget didn’t allow for an actual sketch artist, because every single one of them is  _ horrific _ . It’s hilarious, even if it’s not meant to be. 

Clarke shrugs. “Maybe she  _ meant  _ to draw a pickle and Santa just  _ thought _ it was a dog.”

“Come on,” Bellamy starts, giving her an offended look just for coming up with an argument that bad. “Even  _ I  _ can draw a more convincing dog.”

She winces, all too aware of his napkin freestyles. He elbows her with a chuckle. “Hey, we can’t all have your talent.”

Her mother smiles wistfully as she leans forward to put her hot chocolate down on the coffee table, and for some reason thinks it’s okay to say, “If only she could make a living out of it.”

Clarke is used to it, already content with just rolling her eyes and focusing back on the television like nothing happened, but apparently Bellamy feels offended on her behalf. 

“Of course she can,” he says, forehead wrinkling as he pushes himself up into a more seated position with his elbows. “Clarke has one of the most determined people I know. She works incredibly hard, and her art has so much heart. Someday soon it’ll be hanging somewhere in an art studio.”

Clarke’s eyes significantly widen as she listens to him, heart beating so loud it almost drowns out her mother’s voice. “There’s artists everywhere. The cold hard truth is not many of them make it.”

“I wish you would have a little more faith in her,” he argues back skillfully, not a sliver of doubt in his voice as he presses, “She’s unavoidable.” 

She feels her cheeks get warm as she stares at his profile, not quite sure where this is coming from. That one time he came to her art show he acted like Harper had to physically drag him there. But he genuinely seems to mean every word he says and it makes it hard to swallow, her mouth dry. She doesn’t deserve it. 

Abby tilts her head lightly, sleek hair falling down her shoulders. She puts on her authoritative and dismissive doctor tone, one Clarke absolutely loathes. “I appreciate your faith in my daughter, but don’t you think you might be biased?”

His eyes turn into all too familiar sliths, and Clarke is afraid for whatever is going to happen next. “Believe me, there’s times I’ve absolutely  _ hated  _ Clarke and still I never found myself realizing her work was actually bad.” He snorts mirthlessly, more to himself than anything, then, with an undeniable edge, adds, “What’s your excuse?”

A heavy silence stretches over them, Marcus squirming uncomfortably in his chair, one hand on her mother’s forearm as if to hold her back, just in case, Clarke’s gaze stuck on her hands in her lap. Her mother just purses her lips after a tension-filled moment, nodding her head slowly. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

Clarke glances over at her mom, then back at Bellamy, her pulse racing as she calmly states, “I need to talk to you.” 

He doesn’t make a motion to move, so she grabs his hand, tugging him off the couch and towards the hallway with her, not even bothering to excuse herself. Her mother calls out her name, a warning in her voice, but Clarke turns on her heels to cut her off with a don’t-even-try-it glare that has her clamp her mouth shut. Pointedly stomping, she continues to pull Bellamy up the stairs and into her teenage bedroom. 

As soon as her door, plastered with posters of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, slams shut behind them, she crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. He gets to it before she can. “I’m sorry about that, I know we  _ just _ had a whole conversation about how I wasn’t going to be an overprotective ass anymore--”

She shakes her head, not really ready to hear  _ this.  _ Him defending her is not why she’s frustrated. He just makes her feel like she’s stuck in her rollercoaster, her stomach flip-flopping, her heart stuttering with each unexpected turn. “Why are you really here?”

He straightens, brow furrowing. “I told you. My house would have --”

“No, you _ lied _ to me,” Clarke snaps, not able to keep the anger out of her voice any longer. It’s been a long day and she’s tired and confused and he’s driving her crazy. She knew something was off the second he told her Octavia went on a trip. “There’s no way you would spend Christmas away from your sister willingly.”

He flinches, closing his eyes briefly. “It’s Christmas Eve, Clarke,” he answers steadily, a weary tone to his voice. “Let’s not make it depressing.”

“We just spent two hours watching a horrible movie sitting next to my  _ mom _ and her boyfriend after we ate Chinese take-out for dinner and had to decorate the tree literally four hours before Christmas. It’s already depressing.”

He lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes flick away from hers. “Fine,” Bellamy grits, falling down on top of her bed, fingers curling into her blue comforter. “We had another fight. A big one this time.”

Her shoulders still straightened like she’s ready to go to war, Clarke shakes head in confusion light, licking her lips. They still taste like burnt popcorn. “It’s not like you to run from things.”

“It isn’t. I’m not. It’s just --” Another frustrated sigh, and he’s meeting her eyes again. He swallows tightly, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “She told me she’s not going to college. That I shouldn’t have saved every penny for the last ten years trying to make it happen without consulting her first. It’s like a slap in my face every time she brings it up.” His nostrils flare slightly, the first few words muffled as he scrubs a hand over his face. “She said it was pathetic how my entire life revolved around her. It just makes me feel useless and I’m tired of feeling that way all the time, and I -- I don’t know. Around you I always feel different.”

_ Jesus Christ. _ Clarke is sure that the girl doesn’t mean half of the shit she says sometimes, speaking before she thinks. She’s just a hormonal teenager trying to push the boundaries, find herself, rebel a little. It doesn’t mean her words don’t hold weight though, and she can tell just how heavy they weigh on him just by the devastating look on his face. Even putting Octavia aside, there’s a lot to unpack there. She deflates, all hostility replaced with guilt, carefully sitting down beside him. “Different?”

He shrugs, half-heartedly, face pensive as he thinks over just exactly what that means. “It’s always been easy with you, you know. Simple. We fight and we argue but I never walk away feeling worse than I did before. You--” His adam’s apple bobs up and down slowly, finally looking back up. “I don’t know. You’ve always made me lighter, like I didn’t have to bear it all on my own.” As an afterthought, he adds, “I guess.”

She hates that she made him doubt himself, like he can’t fully express himself around her anymore and has to cover up how he really feels. She hates that she broke them, because despite everything they could always be honest about everything with each other. Everything, except for when it came to their feelings for each other. 

And God, she did miss him. She missed him so much when they weren’t talking, missed his dumb jokes and the stupid pet names and the disgusting cocktails he would throw together for her just to see the horrified look on her face after the first sip. Like the sex had always been great of course -- girls weren’t lining up just to hear him go on and on about Zeus’ long list of illegitimate children -- but he gave the best hugs and she liked secretly holding his hand under the table. 

And a part of her feels like that’s why. It’s why she broke it off because she _ was  _ feeling things she didn’t want to feel. She started showing up to the bar earlier and earlier, just to make sure they could have a real conversation before one of her friends barged in demanding shots. Sometimes he’d ask her to come over after a full days of classes, and they’d just watch a movie and go to sleep. She kept a fucking toothbrush for him in her dorm. 

It was way too much, way too soon and it overwhelmed her to the point she figured it was better to just ignore it all together. To get out. 

  
  


Clarke tilts her head back slightly, processing the information as her cheeks redden. She doesn’t know how to word this in a way that doesn’t feel like a rejection. “Bellamy, I like you. I kind of always have but --”

He smiles, and it’s a sad one, but she can tell none of those feelings are directed at her, just at the situation. No disappointment or anger, just bad timing. “I know. You’re still in love with her.”

Before Lexa, sure, she had a crush on him -- he was a hot, older guy who gave her free drinks and made sure she got home safe after she had too many, it’s the perfect recipe for a crush. But, in no way did she ever take it so far to think anything would ever actually happen between them. And then it did, and she tried so hard to convince herself it meant nothing, that maybe she started to believe it too. 

The heartbreak was still so fresh then, and it felt like betrayal to have feelings for someone else at that point. Wrong to admit, even to herself, that maybe they had always been lingering in the background.

The break-up came as such a blind-sighted surprise -- it all came down to “ _ I got an internship in Washington, it’s great opportunity and I think it’s for the best if we just break it off before one of us gets hurt. Long distance never works _ ” during what she thought would be a romantic anniversary dinner -- it almost felt like grief, trying to get over her. 

She’s doing better now, so much better. For a long time she doubted herself, felt like maybe for some reason she wasn’t worth even trying long distance or just maybe an actual conversation before the decision was made, but now she knows better. Weeks go by where she doesn’t think about her anymore, or where she manages to relive a memory without feeling like bawling her eyes out. She doesn’t know if she’s ready for a relationship yet, she just also knows she can’t let him walk out of here tonight thinking it was never real for her. Not after all the shit she’s said to him. 

_ You’re still in love with her _ . Clarke opens her mouth to deny it, but she can’t. Her bruised heart feels full, like there’s no room for anyone else. But it’s also felt cold for the longest time, and with each sweet smile or unfunny joke, he managed to warm it up. 

She tilts her head slightly, giving him an apologetic look. It’s not that she’s sorry for still being in love with someone else, but that she’s sorry she isn’t ready for him. She just hopes he can wait. And once she knows how to put that into words, she’ll tell him. 

Instead, he seems to understand already. His brown eyes soften and he flashes her another self-deprecating grin. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and pretend like it doesn’t bother me. I would love to not be stalking her on social media every night in bed, wondering what she has and I don’t.” There’s a facetious tone to his voice, like he’s not totally serious but there’s also some truth to the meaning behind the words. 

“And if I ever run into her on the street, I might bump into her on purpose. I  _ hate _ her face. And I  _ hate _ her name. Like who shortens Alexandra to Lexa? Alexa is right there. She’s insane,” he rambles, wiping his hands on his thighs, naming all these crazy things just to make her laugh and make light out of his feelings. A burst of laughter escapes her despite the fact she feels close to tears, wishing she could at least take his hurt away. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt over _ her _ . 

He grins, genuine, his voice turning more serious now they’ve come to the most truthful part of what he’s been gearing up to say. “I’m  _ crazy _ jealous. But that’s just because -- you’re amazing, Clarke. You’re kind and generous and smart. You’re not afraid to challenge me. And to wrap it all up, you’re gorgeous. You’re quite literally the girl from my dreams.”

“Bellamy,” she pleads, embarrassed, ducking her head a little. God, she wishes he didn’t think so highly of her. Maybe he could move on, find someone who deserves all this praise. Thinking about that makes her feel sick to her stomach though, and she figures that’s as much of a sign as anything.

“I’m _ just  _ saying I want to be in your life, however you’ll have me,” he chuckles, knocking his knee into hers to make her look up. When she does, he smiles, completely enamored at the way she’s quite literally squirming and refusing to make eye-contact because of constant stream of compliments. “I’ll shut up.”

“Please,” she states, then reaches over to squeeze his fingers. She meets his gaze, corners of her lips turning up. “Thank you.”

Bellamy’s brow furrows, confusion in his dark eyes. “For what?”

She runs her thumb over the back of his hand, hoping he knows how badly she means it when she says, “For making my Christmas Eve a little bit more bearable.”

He clears his throat. “For crashing your Christmas Eve uninvited, you mean.”

She raises her eyebrows in agreement, then leans in to kiss him, hand on his cheek. It was supposed to be a quick, dry little peck full of promise but he’s kissing her back immediately and she gets lost in it. 

“You’re sweet,” she murmurs against his lips once they pull apart, panting heavily, her eyes still closed, “But so dramatic.”

For once, he doesn’t respond, just leans back in to kiss her again like he can’t wait any longer. It’s easy to get lost in it, for her tongue to brush against his and for him to drag her with him when his back falls back onto the bed. Even less difficult for her to straddle him, her hair a curtain around their heads, his warm hands on her back as his thumbs move circles into her hips. It’s not  _ easy _ but she pulls herself together and rolls off him, sitting up with an apologetic glance his way.    
  


Bellamy leans up on his elbows, dazed, questioning look on his face. His lips are slightly red, and her heart squeezes painfully in her chest. She would love to have him stay over, his heavy arm around her waist as they sleep, nice and comforting. She knows that it would not only be too much too soon again, she also knows him, and she knows he would never forgive himself for not being where he should be.

She lifts an eyebrow matter of factly. “My mom is downstairs and you have a long drive ahead if you want to make it back in time. You should spare your energy.”

He groans, frustration evident as he throws his head back. “Seriously? You’re gonna make me drive eight hours back? It’s  _ Christmas. _ ”

Clarke takes his wrists in her hands to drag him back up in a seated position, even if he doesn’t come easily. She lets out a huff of exertion when she finally manages to get him back up on eye-level, not that he was much help. “And you should be there in the morning when your sister wakes up.”

He falls back onto the bed again, adjusting his jeans uncomfortably. Begrudgingly, he counters, “Way to ruin the mood.”

Clarke laughs, patting his thigh, “Holiday spirit and all.” 

He smiles, and she returns it, even though it fades a little at the edges. She waits for him to sit up, then searches his face carefully, biting down on her lip. “I just…” She takes a deep breath, hoping he doesn’t take this as another brush-off. “I need a little more time, okay?”

“I get that,” he grins, and it’s actually genuine. Hopeful. And she sincerely hopes that when she  _ is  _ ready, which she knows will be someday soon, he’ll still be there waiting for her. “Walk me to the door?”

Clarke gets off the bed and offers him a hand to pull him up as well before leading him down the stairs. She doesn’t unlace her fingers from his until they enter the living room. Just a little bit more time. 

“Bellamy is leaving,” she announces, drawing her mom and Marcus’ attention away from the television. Her mom looks apologetic, but Clarke isn’t feeling it until she’s had at least half of that bottle of cider, and maybe even then it can wait until the opening of the presents tomorrow. 

She leans against the doorframe as she watches Bellamy brave it and shake their hands in goodbye. “Thanks for having me over for dinner. Merry Christmas.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay in the guest bedroom tonight? It’s an awful long way back,” Abby offers, an obvious attempt at an apology for the situation earlier, and neither of them miss the emphasization of _guest_ _bedroom._ Yet Bellamy’s already shaking his head. 

“No, that’s okay, m’am, thank you,” he brushes her off, glancing over at her daughter briefly as he holds back a smile. “I have a Christmas tradition to fulfill in the morning.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, son,” Marcus says clapping him on the shoulder, her mother simply nodding along. “Have a safe journey back.”

He follows her back into the hallway and they stop in front of the door after he’s shrugged back into his jacket. She hugs him tightly, probably for a few seconds longer than is technically appropriate. Clarke can’t help but feel like she’s letting him slip away, even if they just had a conversation in which he basically said he was okay with waiting. Biting the inside of her cheek, she tells him as she pulls away, squeezing his shoulders, “Drive safe, okay?”

“I will,” he grins, endeared by the worry in her voice. He makes a move for the door, but before he can she blurts out, “And text me when you get home.”

“For sure,” his grin widens even further, studying her face like he’s figuring something out. He gives her another second, but when nothing more comes, he reaches for the door handle. 

Clarke curses herself, but also can’t stop her mouth from moving, “And Bellamy…” 

He turns again, raising his eyebrows at her as she worries her lip. Amused and expectant, he pushes, “Yeah?”

She pauses, hesitating. “She’ll come around, okay? She’ll see how special you are.”

He nods, lips pressed together tightly but a warmth in his eyes that heats her own heart. Bellamy reaches for the door again, and this time she lets him go, make his way over to this car. He stops by the door of his truck, holding up his hand in a wave with one last lingering look. 

Clarke takes the edge of her ugly Christmas sweater into her hands and pulls it up to her face, showing off the black push-up bra she was wearing underneath. Normally only something she wears on nights out, but coincidentally it was laundry day and his lucky day all wrapped into one.  _ That _ bra on  _ her _ boobs? Breathtaking. 

He laughs loudly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, making her smile. She waits until he gets in the vehicle, honking before he finally drives off. When he pulls over for gas, he’ll see the text she sent him straight after. 

“One for the road.”

**~~**

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know why i enjoy postponing writing chopped fics until the deadline is like under twelve hours. it's like a professional sport for me. let me know my labor was worth it by commenting pls *noah centineo 🙏 noises*


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